


Clouds off the Atlantic

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Ireland, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-04
Updated: 2006-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://msilverstar.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://msilverstar.livejournal.com/"><b>msilverstar</b></a> requested some Billy and Viggo.  I decided to plop them down in the middle of the west of Ireland, shortly after the end of filming, year 2001.  Hope it fits the bill!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clouds off the Atlantic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msilverstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msilverstar/gifts).



Ireland was a fucking depressing country.

The clouds seemed to have moved in right along with Viggo's plane off the Atlantic coast, and showed no signs of departing anytime soon. Compared to Los Angeles, the southwest coast of this supposedly beautiful country was absolutely blustery and dreary in mid-March, and it looked like rain. Hell, big surprise there.

Billy had decided that he needed a holiday. Dom and Elijah were perfectly happy just where they were in California, thanks, and most of Billy's old friends from home couldn't exactly pick up for a week, leave work, and abandon their families for a rehashing of the good old days. Besides, Viggo had always been good company. He wasn't working on anything at the moment, and Billy had a feeling that he'd be a good travelling partner, quiet enough to keep the holiday a holiday, but interesting enough so that they'd never run out of things to say.

Viggo just wasn't sure why Billy couldn't have picked, say, Monaco. Or the South of France.

The plane from LA went through New York and then into Shannon. It was fifteen hours with the layover, plus the nine-hour time difference. When the plane finally landed at seven am, Viggo was exhausted.

Shannon was teeming with US troops, a fresh shipment in on their way to Afghanistan or somewhere. Customs lines were long, the baggage carousels were extremely crowded, and the taxi rank was strangely empty.

Still, Viggo was optimistic. Billy had been extremely excited about this opportunity for some peace and relaxation. He had explained that the really popular tourist season in the Isles was summer, so they'd be able to find cheaper rooms and see the sights without being stopped for autographs every seven seconds. He had faxed Viggo an itinerary in LA, with very explicit instructions on how to get from Shannon to Galway, where Billy would meet him. So, with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder and as much as a positive attitude as he could muster with his scarf wrapped tightly under his neck and fat droplets of rain beginning to fall, Viggo found the line for the Galway bus.

The ride was a little under two hours. Viggo ended up in a seat near the front of the bus next to a woman who took up a little more than her share of the space, but at least she was quiet. Through the sheets of rain that were now steadily pouring down outside the window, Viggo read the names of the towns where the bus stopped—very Irish names like Crusheen and Kilcolgan. As Billy had explained on the itinerary, Viggo dutifully got off the bus at the last stop, the Galway bus station. It was ten forty five, and Billy was nowhere in sight.

"Hello? Yeah, I'm sorry Vig, my plane was a bit delayed, but I'm just getting through customs now. It should be quite quick, there's a special line for UK passports… just hold tight and I'll be at the station. We'll still make the ferry, don't worry."

Viggo obediently walked inside the bus station, finding an ATM where he got out two hundred Euro in cash and a little convenience store-type window where he could purchase a turkey sandwich and a Fanta for lunch. After half an hour on a hard plastic chair in the station, Billy finally stepped through the glass doors, looking rather wet and haggard.

"Hey Vig, I'm sorry I'm late. It's so good to see you," he exclaimed, pulling Viggo into a hug.

Viggo smiled as he breathed in Billy's scent, a little stronger since he was so soaked, and hugged his friend tightly despite the dampness the embrace transferred. "You too, hobbit. We'll get you dried off and warm soon, yeah?"

Billy smiled and nodded. "Right we will. But first we've got a bus to catch. That's your only bag?"

"Yeah, I'm easy," Viggo agreed. "Which way?"

Viggo followed Billy at a quick pace to the hostel from which the bus to the ferry launch left, unfortunately not actually at the Galway bus station but not too far, either. By now, the rain was a severe deterrent to the pleasure of their walk, and both men were silent, splashing through the puddles unintentionally and ducking their heads against the wind. Viggo let out a small sigh of relief when they made the bus just in time, bought their tickets and could at least be marginally dry for the hour-long ride.

"Fuck, I think even my fucking pants are soaked," Billy complained when they had settled into seats side by side, bags tucked into the hold above their heads. Viggo smiled as Billy squirmed, and nodded sympathetically.

"I feel you there, my friend. What I wouldn't give for a space heater right now."

"Hopefully this rain will let up by the time we get there. The Aran Islands really are beautiful, and it would be best if you could see them dry."

"Well I'll cross my fingers."

Billy smiled, the first time Viggo had seen him do so since he arrived, and briefly dropped his head to Viggo's shoulder in a sort of nudging motion. "It really is good to see you."

Viggo smiled and lightly ruffled Billy's hair. "You, too. It's good to have a break. You know I've never been to Ireland."

"No? I'm surprised by that. But you've been to Scotland, haven't you?"

Viggo blushed guiltily and shook his head.

"What?"

"Just never had the chance," Viggo said with a shrug. Billy continued to gape.

"Well why the bloody hell are we vacationing in _Ireland_, then? Jesus! I've got to show you Glasgow, and the Highlands, and Aberdeen…"

Viggo smiled and ruffled Billy's hair again, as if he were a particularly amusing pet. "We'll have time. I'll be back, I promise."

"You had better be," Billy huffed, looking particularly affronted.

"I wanted you to have a vacation as well," Viggo explained, serious now. Billy cocked his head to the side, considering, and then nodded.

"It's nothing like it was," he admitted, snuggling slightly into Billy's side. They were still both extremely damp, but Viggo slung an arm around Billy anyway and tugged him closer, remarking not for the first time how perfectly the hobbits fit under his arm, like Henry when he was younger.

"Nothing like New Zealand, or Glasgow?" Viggo prodded, gently. Billy shrugged and buried closer.

"Both. I just… nothing will ever be exactly as it was, will it?" Billy looked up, twisted slightly to meet Viggo's eye, and Viggo was struck by how young Billy looked, his hair dyed slightly lighter than its natural colour but his eyes still that almost unrealistic glassy green. Up close, Billy's eyes reminded Viggo of stained glass. He wasn't sure why, but he knew he could never paint his friend.

"No," he finally answered, his voice low and resigned. Billy nodded, seemed okay with that assessment. They fell into silence, aside from the rumbling of the coach wheels and the driving patter of the rain.

 

By the time the bus arrived at the Rosaveel docks, Billy and Viggo had accumulated a bit of a smell. Their clothes clung damply to them, and the fresh drizzle as they queued up for the boat didn't help. The waves were choppy, and Billy spent the entire time sitting in the cabin of the ferry, feeling vaguely sick. Viggo set next to him, their bags under his feet, and rubbed Billy's back in continuous circles until they reached (not really) dry land again.

The rain was still coming down when they docked at Inis Mor at two thirty, and Billy and Viggo hurried quickly on foot to the small bed and breakfast they had booked for the night. The proprietor was cheerful at least, and showed them personally to their room, a decent-sized suite with two twin beds and a small bath. The original plan had been to walk around the island, checking out the cliffs and historical sites and maybe going horseback riding, but the rain showed no signs of letting up, so Viggo urged Billy, whose teeth were chattering, to get out of his wet clothes and take a hot shower, while Viggo perused the modest cable television options.

An hour later, both men were clean and relatively dry, if a little dejected. A quick check of the weather on Sky News made it evident that sun would not be expected for this day, nor the next two. They might get a chance to see the cliffs tomorrow before they left, when the drizzle was supposed to thin out, but it was likely wise to catch an earlier ferry than planned and spend the night searching out entertainment in Galway, where there would at least be more to do. Their planned journey to the Cliffs of Moher was also up in the air, but Viggo cheered Billy up a bit by insisting he didn't care what they did exactly, as long as they spent time together.

And so, that philosophy in mind, the rest of the afternoon was spent watching a Bond film on the telly, until they finally decided to go next door to a small pub for supper.

Dressed in a heavy black jumper and corduroy pants, Billy looked extremely comfortable and warm, and Viggo just wanted to wrap his arms around him and squeeze. In typical Viggo fashion, he told him so, and Billy just laughed.

"You can if you want, but I don't think these blokes will go for that," he joked as they sat down in a booth, surrounded by the almost steamy warmth of artificial heat and a pleasant atmosphere of dark wood and tchatchkes, the table lit by a small lamp.

Viggo just grinned at Billy as he shrugged off his own jacket and folded it on the seat next to him. The woman who came to take their order was young and buxom, and though Billy's accent didn't faze her in the least, she seemed absolutely enamoured of Viggo.

"You're from the States, aren't you? I have a cousin in Delaware," she proclaimed proudly once he'd ordered the potato leek soup and a corned beef sandwich for supper. Billy tried not to laugh behind his hand, and Viggo just smiled warmly.

"I'm from New York, actually, but I live in California."

"Oh, right. They're not nearby, are they?"

Billy turned his laugh into a cough, and Viggo smiled indulgently and shook his head. The minute she left to go make the Irish coffees they'd ordered to start, Billy burst into laughter.

"Oh Veeeego, you're not from Ameeerrica, are yeh?" He batted his eyelashes and then ducked away quickly when Viggo tried to swat him across the table.

"Shut it, Boyd. She'll hear you."

"Oh, what of it?" Billy laughed again and then reached across the table unexpectedly, grabbing one of Viggo's slightly cold hands in both his own. "It's good to have you back," he said seriously, his tone low enough that Viggo just barely heard him. He smiled brightly, the gesture lighting his whole face, and turned his hand to squeeze. Just then the girl came hurrying back, and Billy quickly drew his hands away before she set down their coffees.

"God, that's amazing," Viggo commented when the espresso and whisky slid down his throat, sighing languorously and stretching his arms out to the sides along the back of the booth. "That shit warms your soul right up, doesn't it?"

Billy grinned and took a slower sip of his own, tongue darting out to swipe the excess whipped cream. "Well, I won't say the Irish are the best at whisky itself, but they do make a fine coffee, I'll admit."

Viggo smiled and took another sip, his hands cupping the glass to draw some of its warmth into chapped fingertips. "I've got a little bit of rattlin' money, you know. Maybe after dinner I'll buy us each a glass of Scotch. You can pick."

Billy grinned as if he'd won the lottery and shook his head, laughing lightly. "You don't know what you've gotten yourself into, my friend. The selection here's far beyond what it is in New Zealand."

"Oh, come on," Viggo protested. "How much could two glasses cost, honestly?"

"You'd be surprised. You ever drink single malt?"

Viggo shook his head.

"Shame on yeh. You haven't lived, really."

"So Sean tells me."

"Of course he does. English bastard he may be, but he knows his drinks."

Viggo smiled. It'd been a while since he and Sean Bean had spoken, but he knew the phone would ring eventually. They were just like that.

"Well I'll chalk it up to my cultural education, then."

"Right you are." Billy grinned and they sipped their drinks in silence for a moment, letting the warmth slowly seep into their bones, until the girl came back with Viggo's soup and sandwich and Billy's steak and Guinness pie. Viggo made a bad joke about mixing alcohols, and as they ate, they removed the heavy, damp jumpers and became a bit louder, bad jokes and old stories prompting raucous laughter from both sides as the pink rose up in their cheeks.

The girl waiting on them looked to be in heaven when Viggo called her over and let her settle a bet on whose attempt at pronouncing the Irish names on the menu was better, and voted him a winner because Billy's pronunciation was "too Scottish." She got a bit of a glare for that one, but Viggo just laughed and ordered two glasses of Macallan, and Billy's mood brightened exponentially with the first sip.

By the time they left the pub, it was after ten, and both were tired enough to head straight to bed despite the time, joking about how this never would've happened in New Zealand, where Billy was always out cavorting with the hobbits and Viggo was up at all hours working on an art project or perfecting Aragorn's lines for the next day.

Before he drifted off, Billy half-whispered that he liked it better this way. Viggo was inclined to agree.

 

The next morning was blustery and miserable. They went to the cliffs anyway, and Viggo's attempt to give Billy a lesson on the religious history of the region was quickly quelled when his tour guide was soaked through and the ink began to run. Billy laughed and explained that it didn't matter anyway, you're either Protestant or Catholic and, as a Catholic, Billy was in good stead here. Viggo laughed and asked Billy if he really considered himself a Catholic, still. Billy was surprised to realise that he didn't actually know, and they spent a few minutes in silence, looking out over the breaking waves through the fog and contemplating that.

The ferry ride back was unsurprisingly miserable, and Billy threw up a couple of times over the railing, much to his chagrin. When they arrived at the hotel room they'd booked in Galway, Billy insisted that they should go out, have some supper and then find a club, that he'd be fine once he'd sat down for a moment on dry land, but Viggo put his foot down. After checking to make sure that Billy was all right in the shower, he headed out and found a Marks &amp; Sparks, where he picked up some soup that they could microwave in the room and sandwiches, along with a litre of juice. When he returned, Billy was sitting on one of the beds with a towel wrapped around his waist, looking pale. Viggo immediately got him into his pyjamas, tucked him in, and changed into dry clothes himself before propping up in bed next to Billy and spoon-feeding him warm soup. Billy was at first reluctant to accept the help, but Viggo refused to back down, and soon Billy was grateful for the chance to relax and let his stomach settle. When he fell asleep shortly after supper, Viggo propped up behind him with Billy's head in his lap, singing old Venezuelan lullabies, Viggo didn't have the heart to wake him, and ended up falling asleep himself, head lolling to the side.

The next day, clouds still hung low over Galway, but it wasn't raining, and Billy felt much better. They had porridge and tea for breakfast next door, and then decided to make the Cliffs of Moher a day trip, and spend another night in the hotel in Galway before heading down to County Cork for the tail end of their trip.

Billy grumbled a lot about the winter bus schedule, which meant only one bus to the Cliffs and one back, with an hour and ten minutes in between, but at least the bus was warm and relatively comfortable, with its little metal kick down footrests and slightly reclining seats. "Better than Aer Lingus," Viggo mumbled, and Billy barked out a laugh.

When they arrived at the cliffs, it was twelve thirty, and both men were bundled up to the extreme, along with the few other brave tourists who decided to have a look at the scenery—two Spanish girls, a French family, and, to Viggo's delight, a couple of Danish guys who talked with him at length as they walked to the cliffs themselves. One, Hans, was from Aarhus, and Mads was from Copenhagen. Both were attractive, probably thirty something, workers in a chemical plant who'd taken their two weeks' vacation to explore the Isles. Billy walked silently alongside Viggo, closer to his friend than Viggo was to the Danes, and shoved his hands in his pockets, his light blue knit ski cap tugged almost down to his eyes.

The cliffs were beautiful, as was to be expected, but horrendously windy. One of the Danes stepped too close and stumbled a bit, and Viggo who happened to be nearest, caught him. Billy glared protectively, and from then on both Hans and Mads were a little more cautious around Viggo. Viggo, being struck by the natural beauty of it all, didn't notice.

It took half an hour for Viggo to get all the photos he wanted. Billy insisted that with the cloud cover and the wind, there wasn't much to see, but Viggo loved it. The early afternoon light diffused through the clouds was perfect, he said, and when a few pale rays of sunlight broke through the chiascuro of grey, he made Billy stand (a bit unsteadily) as close to the edge as he dared, wind making his jumper billow out as he squinted against the onslaught. Crouched on his knees to get the shot, Viggo stared reverently as he lowered the camera, and remained in place until Billy came over to find out what he was on about.

"I see you differently, now," Viggo replied, his voice soft with that haze of creative genius that sometimes coloured his speech. Billy smiled and kissed his cheek. They ate their sandwiches in silence, and went back to Galway shortly after.

Dinner was a simple affair, pad thai at a counter not far from the hotel, and then they caught an early evening film, an English comedy that had Billy in stitches while Viggo chose not to admit that he didn't quite get it. There were no other patrons in the run-down cinema, most others choosing to go see a rated 17 blockbuster flick, and so they sat smack dab in the middle, Billy resting his head on Viggo's shoulder while Viggo slung one arm comfortably around Billy's. After the film, they had a drink, and went to bed quietly again. Viggo had a fair bit to think about.

 

The next day, the sun was actually peeking out of the clouds, and so Viggo and Billy decided to leave shortly after breakfast to head on to Glengarriff. Billy had never actually been there, but a friend had recommended a hike up above Bantry Bay, and there was some sort of botanical garden just outside the town. They quickly realised, however, that there was no way in hell you could take a bus from Galway to Glengarriff without making it a seven hour trip that involved first going to Cork and then changing busses. But Billy was not one to be discouraged.

As Billy pocketed the keys to a hired Smart car, Viggo was humming under his breath "Glengarriff or bust," roughly to the tune of "the hammer in the dell." Billy folded out a large road map of the country, which he had purchased at the car hire office, and found a slightly roundabout route that went through Ennis and Limerick, then pretty much due south on the N20 and west a ways on the N72 until it finally picked up the N71 to their destination. Through all this explaining, Viggo fiddled with the radio until he settled on the Irish language station, which was playing some decent traditional music and had a lot less talk than any of the English ones.

There was an on-and-off drizzle throughout the trip, but it wasn't too bad. They were silent almost the entire way, and through some of it Viggo slept. He offered to drive, but Billy protested that despite Viggo's New Zealand experience with driving on the left, he felt safer at the wheel. Something about how the rules for roundabouts were different, and Viggo didn't really care, because he was warm and dry and the country was beautiful and green and Billy's hand brushing his thigh when he shifted gears felt comforting.

When they arrived at the botanical gardens, the sun to cloud ratio was about half and half, and it wasn't raining at all. The place was kind of tucked into the woods at the side of the road, and it only took five minutes looking around to realise all they were going to see in winter were a bunch of palm trees with placards naming the American film that genus had most recently been seen in. Laughing, they ran back to the entrance before the groundskeeper found them to collect the six Euro fee, and continued on down the road into town.

Glengarriff itself was quaint, and clearly a summer town. Half the restaurants and shops were closed for the off-season, and the largest hotel's parking lot was only a quarter full. They filled up with petrol, and then decided to leave the car at the hotel, not seeing any signs to the contrary. They left most of their things in the car, but Viggo took his camera along, and when the sun peeked out of the clouds and hit the bay just right as they crossed the motorway, he had to snap a photo.

The bay itself was rather impressive, if not particularly large, and quite empty. Many of the boats were parked permanently for the winter, and Seal Island off in the distance looked rather vacant. Still, the lack of tourists was rather refreshing, and the day was warming up surprisingly. Billy explained something about the Gulf Stream and how it was a bit like Inverness, but Viggo paid more attention to the way Billy's mouth moved when he formed his vowels. He thought briefly that he might need his head examined.

They stopped at a Centra where Viggo bought a postcard for Henry, and they each picked up a sandwich, a bag of cheese and onion crisps, and an Orangina for lunch. From there, they crossed a bridge and found the bottom of the hiking trail, a rather inconspicuous paved uphill path that ran in front of some houses and was marked by a single brown sign.

The hike itself was quite easy, and the path was wide and empty. They stopped at intervals so that Viggo could photograph things he found interesting—a particularly lush fern; a barren rock face, creeping with moss; Billy, smiling with embarrassment over his shoulder when Viggo caught him off guard looking at out at the surrounding mountains from a clearing. About forty-five minutes in, they reached a steep set of wooden steps on the left hand side, leading up to Lady Bantry's lookout. Billy grumbled about the incline, but they set on, and soon were at the top.

It took Viggo about two seconds to whip out his camera and start snapping, the view amazing and panoramic from their position overlooking the valley and the bay itself. Billy collapsed on the single wooden bench, feigning exhaustion and starvation, and set to pulling out their lunches. When Viggo could stop taking pictures long enough to breathe, Billy handed him a sandwich, and they ate in relative peace, enjoying the scenery and the comfort that comes with having a friend so close that nothing at all says more than words ever could.

Viggo wasn't sure _why_ he did it, exactly, but something about Billy sitting there, full and happy and surrounded by air and water and open skies possessed him to lean over, and kiss Billy full on the mouth.

On set, he had had a decent excuse. There was a context, and he honestly had felt nothing more towards Billy than a surge of friendly affection. Now, however, he couldn't quite write it off so easily. Billy was beautiful. Viggo had spent the past few days observing this, how even when he was sniffly and warm and tucked in bed, but especially when he was standing in the open air, surrounded by the wonders of nature, Billy was beautiful. And now, Viggo was royally fucked.

Billy's small fingers tightened in Viggo's hair and at the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer. It could've been a quick kiss, didn't have to mean much, but that wasn't where they were going with this. Billy moaned against Viggo's mouth and opened his own, just slightly. Viggo licked the outline of Billy's mouth, slowly, his tongue just darting inside at the corners, and then traced a long line with the tip of his tongue from the back of Billy's palate to the inside of his top row of teeth. Billy shivered, but not from the cold, and pressed closer. When Viggo finally broke away, he found he couldn't go far, and sat, gasping, with his forehead pressed against Billy's and his hands pressing firmly at Billy's sides.

"Your hair's gone long again," Billy said, fondly, his accent thick and his voice soft. Viggo laughed and let his eyes fall closed, his tongue darting out to lick Billy's closed lips more playfully this time.

"Non sequitur," he whispered, and felt Billy's grin against his mouth.

"Is not," Billy murmured, his lips brushing Viggo's with a softness that made Viggo's very gut flutter just a little as he squeezed Billy's hips involuntarily. "It feels nice between my fingers… feathery," he explained, raking neatly trimmed nails around the curve of Viggo's scalp to demonstrate. Viggo's eyes shut tighter and his head tilted back slightly, his lips brushing the flare of Billy's nostril and the arch of his cheekbone in the process. He couldn't see Billy smile, but he could picture it in his head and hear it in his voice when he teasingly muttered, "like that, do you?"

"God, Billy," Viggo murmured, a bit more wantonly than intended. "Have you… have you wanted this long?"

There was a pause, Billy's fingers idly curling around the strands between them, and Viggo opened his eyes and righted his head. "No," Billy replied, shaking his head. "Subconsciously, I think, but… I've just recognised it for what it is," he explained, his eyes intense and serious. Viggo nodded, his hand coming up to brush a thumb over Billy's cheek in a caress. "I've only wanted ye to have the best holiday you could," Billy explained. "Wanted to be sure you'd be back, but… I donnae think I knew why," he admitted with a shrug.

Viggo smiled and kissed Billy's brow, his lips skimming along to the sharp protrusion of the nasal bone and then down to press a kiss to Billy's practically-famous filtrum and finally his lips, quickly, chastely. "You and I understand each other, I think."

Billy smiled and nodded, because it was true. They did.

"Would you… consider staying a bit longer, maybe? Come back to Glasgow with me?"

Viggo smiled wider and nodded, taking Billy's face now in both hands and kissing him soundly, Billy's slightly swollen lower lip dragging between his teeth when he pulled away. "I'd love to, you know that."

Billy grinned and nodded, then suddenly leaned forward and took a nip from Viggo's ear. "You're a naughty bugger, I'll bet," he whispered teasingly, and Viggo shuddered even as he smiled.

"Maybe you'll find out just how much," he promised, one hand jokingly straying to the bit of Billy's arse he could reach on the bench and squeezing. "Slowly, though," he amended. "It's been a hell of a long time…"

Billy nodded, looking a bit vulnerable as his eyes closed and he stroked Viggo's hair again with the one hand, dropping his head to Viggo's shoulder. "Not been much for me," he admitted, his voice strong but muffled by Viggo's jumper. "Just a few times, not all the way like, you know… drama school…"

Viggo nodded, even though Billy couldn't see, and brought one hand up to rub the tight cords of Billy's neck. "It can be whatever we want it to be," he promised, and Billy smiled against his shoulder.

"I like that," he replied, squeezing the top of Viggo's thigh encouragingly. "Maybe Ireland's not so bad after all… weather notwithstanding."

Viggo snorted. "Yeah, notwithstanding," he agreed, kissing the top of Billy's head. "It's not so bad…"

Ireland was a fucking depressing country.

But for the rest of the holiday, they didn't really notice.


End file.
